


Sometimes I Wish It Would Stay

by SittingOnACornflake



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: 1964, Attempt at Historical Accuracy, First Kiss, Fluff, George Needs a Hug, Getting Together, In case you didn't understand, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sharing a Bed, and fluff, and light angst? maybe, and some more - Freeform, here have some fluff, i gave everything i had with this one, mentions of smoking and sex but that's all i can think of, or two, set in France, so if it's too soft don't @ me, starrison, there are feelings everywhere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:49:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28341936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SittingOnACornflake/pseuds/SittingOnACornflake
Summary: George will get over it. Sooner or later he’ll stop being so hopelessly in love with Ringo. He knows he will.This time hasn’t come yet though. It’s 1964, they’re in France, and his feelings are slowly becoming too much to bear.
Relationships: George Harrison/Ringo Starr
Comments: 24
Kudos: 42
Collections: Starrison Holiday Gift Exchange 2020





	Sometimes I Wish It Would Stay

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Casafrass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Casafrass/gifts).



> Merry Christmas Casafrass <3 I hope you'll like this, and most of all I hope you have a great holiday time! This turned out quite long (for me anyway), I hope you don't mind.
> 
> (I had trouble finding the right title but then McCartney III saved me.)

Sometimes he wishes it would go away.

Now it’s “This Boy” that they’re playing. George puts on a brave smile as he leans into the mic he’s sharing with Paul. All he has to do is keep doing just that. He doesn’t have to do anything more, and certainly not– He shakes his head slightly, and it looks like he’s merely vibing to the music. _As if. As if I could, when …_

He just has to focus on the show.

Some days are just harder than the others. Some days all the feelings that are bubbling in him are so acute that they become menacing and that they hurt. _Of course,_ today’s not one of these days. _Not at all_. It’s a passing thought like any other.

He’s completely in control of his thoughts, right? He’s singing the right words, song after song and set after set. Unlike John only two songs ago. George’s fake smile transforms into a genuine grin for a few seconds as he makes a mental note; he’ll make sure John knows it didn’t go unnoticed as soon as they’re offstage.

His body, much like his thoughts, is completely under control. After all, he’s smiling and he hasn’t messed up a single chord since the beginning of the whole ordeal, when all he wants to do is– _no, scrap that._ He surveys the room, his eyebrows frowning the tiniest bit – _but no, his eyebrows stand perfectly still; he’s in control of his body just like he’s in control of his mind_.

The people in the audience are enjoying themselves. They’re clapping their hands and cheering them, even though it’s a lot less deafening than what they’ve gotten used to. At first, detailing that French audience had been entertaining – after all, they’re all dressed like they’re going to a special event. Some lads are clearly wearing their finest tuxedos, and the girls are wearing evening dresses.

Yes, noticing all those little things has been fun in the beginning – they’ve even had a laugh or two about it the first nights, the four of them. These French are unbelievable – acting as if their concerts are a film premiere or something. “First it’s like we’re ballet dancers, then what? They’ll say we’ve written poetry instead of songs,” Paul had uttered between two waves of laughter.

But now it’s their tenth show – according to Brian; George has lost the count already – and the novelty of the situation has worn off a while ago. George can’t rely on the audience to prevent his thoughts from wandering _there_. Naming what _there_ is would only push him head first into that abyss, so he does his best to avoid it. His thigh itches. He doesn’t scratch it; instead he plays as well as he ever did and even winks playfully in the audience’s direction.

He’d give anything to make “This Boy” last twice longer. As much as finally retreating backstage sounds desirable, he’s dreading the next song.

“This Boy” ends without mercy. The audience claps even louder, shouting things in a language he doesn’t understand. The words get blended in the undecipherable mix of other cries anyway. Paul says a few sentences, and then it’s happening.

_I’ve been told when a boy kiss a girl …_

Well, George doesn’t want to be told anything. The smile plastered on his face grows even wider as he sings and plays.

He tries to shut down from the rest of the world, to block out the music, to only play and sing by heart. If he could do that, he’d merely need to use Paul as a reference to know when he has to sing these “yeah, yeah, boys” with him.

He already knew today isn’t his lucky day, and indeed it doesn’t work. If anything, trying to ignore the music, and particularly the music coming from behind him, only makes him more aware of it. Instead of sheltering him, it’s making him more focused.

Ringo is singing. George really, really wants to turn around and look at him.

_Just a little look. It wouldn’t hurt anyone._ He just wants to see Ringo, because when he’s playing and singing at the same time, and particularly when it’s that song– _no._

He won’t look. He won’t look and he’s particularly grateful that he’s sharing Paul’s mic today. Usually, he’s got his own mic and he’s standing at one end of the stage, which makes it all the more tempting to turn to the side, just the slightest bit, and stare at his drummer bandmate. Today, though, John has claimed that spot, leaving George right in the middle of the stage because Paul always stays on the right. George would have to fully turn around if he wanted to see Ringo, and it would be awkward to do such a thing, wouldn’t it? All in all, this spot is a blessing. He might claim it again tomorrow.

Except that there’s one problem, a tiny little problem George hadn’t envisioned until they began playing their opening song.

Standing right in front of the drums means that every sound of cymbal echoes differently. It catches him off-guard every two seconds. George isn’t used to stand right there, and the sounds are a bit different to his ears, especially since the French crowd, being tamer than their usual crowds, allows them all to actually hear what they’re playing. He hears Ringo’s drums right in his back. He can also hear his voice, now that the man is singing.

It’s not alright.

George knows it’s only his mind playing tricks to him. Ringo’s voice can’t _really_ seep into his bones, nor can it worm its way into his brain. Every sound he hears from the drums behind him echoes through his skull. All he wants, right now, is to turn around and stare. To stop singing, stop moving his hands and just stare endlessly, eyes bulging out of their sockets and lips slightly parted because _shit_ , he got so engrossed in these _thoughts-he-ought-not-to-have_ that he’s growing out of breath. His voice falters a quarter of second before Paul and him lean away from the mic for the last time.

The song ends. He did it.

They’re almost done with the set now. When the critical “Boys” moment is over, George knows there are only two more songs they have to perform. “I Want To Hold Your Hand” first, and then “Twist And Shout”. Then he can sleep it off until their morning set. _Easy._

He may have been too confident though. During the previous song, he’d paid the most scrupulous care to his feet – _don’t move, don’t move, you’re both deeply rooted into the ground, I couldn’t turn around even if I wanted to, in fact I am a tree_ – but now, before he’s even realised it, he’s taking some steps aside from the mic. He doesn’t succeed in getting a hold of himself and he turns away from the crowd. He hasn’t decided to do so, but here he is. He catches a glimpse of Ringo, who’s playing – what else would he do? – and meets his eyes. Ringo smiles to him, as if he were happy George is acknowledging him. His head is moving from side to side. George turns away, goes back to the mic just in time.

Turning around was a wrong idea. He’s felt it again. That tightening grip in his chest, that feeling that he either wants to die – why not from the Eiffel tower? – or jump in joy around the stage. One could have thought he’d gotten used to it, after all this time.

Unfortunately, it’s not like that. It’s not something he’s able to put in a box and leave in a dark, dusty corner of his mind. It’s worse every time, it’s menacing to make his heart burst out of his goddamn chest – and it will, eventually. He knows it. There’s just so much that he can bear, and today is so painful already. Much more than when they arrived in Paris six days ago, and it simply can’t be compared to that fleeting feeling he first noticed– _when was that? Two years ago?_

They’ve played “I Want To Hold Your Hand” so many times that he doesn’t have to think about it as he lets his hands do their job.

That goddamn, blasted sentence presents itself to his mind. He represses a shudder that thankfully doesn’t make him miss a chord. The big, frightening word is there, standing proudly in the middle of the terrifying sentence. _I love him._

He loves Ringo, alright. It’s nothing new to him. He’s acutely aware of it, it’s in every breath he takes and every single one of his laughs, it’s even in these songs that he always begins and doesn’t finish.

He loves him. It’s a devastating thought.

_I love him and I don’t even have a chance._

He’s dwelling on that thought – again, and against his better judgement and against all the self-control he wanted to pretend he had over himself – when the set finally ends. John, Paul and he take a step back and the curtains are drawn, sheltering them from the cheering crowd.

“Une autre, une autre!”

“No, not another one,” George mumbles without even thinking about it. His thoughts are hazier by the minute, a combination of exhaustion from being onstage and that umpteenth and unneeded confirmation that he is, indeed, in love.

At least they’ll have learnt some French during this tour. He’s already put his guitar aside, discarding it without paying attention, but someone – possibly Mal, though he wouldn’t swear it on his favourite guitar pick – shoves it in his hands again. In a haze, he follows his three bandmates back onstage. His eyes are fixed on John’s neck. Then John settles further from where they entered. George stops next to Paul, his guitar heavy in his hands.

“Long Tall Sally,” John shouts in their direction.

Paul nods. A fraction of second later he curtains open again. George places his fingers on the frets, ready to play the first chord. Paul thanks the people looking at them, who are all standing and cheering.

“Shit,” George curses. Fortunately, Paul has already began to sing and his own voice goes unnoticed. He hastily plucks another chord. The first couple of measures are somehow escaping his mind, so he has to settle for some basic impro – no one seems to notice. He’d bet no one is looking at him – after all, he’s right next to Paul who’s batting his eyes and giving everything he’s got.

Still, it’s irking him on top of everything else. Since he messed up, it’s not tonight that he’ll tease John.

“Merci, we had a lovely evening with you all, bonsoir!” Paul says as they bow.

Just like at the end of every other set they’ve done, these French words seem to make the crowd ecstatic. George only catches a brief glimpse of it as the curtains are drawn again.

Someone – he’s practically sure it’s Mal this time – takes his guitar from him. He’s given a bottle of water instead and downs it gratefully. He hadn’t realised he was so thirsty – and sweaty. He’s clumsily trying to unfasten his tie with only one hand when a familiar figure stands in front of him.

“Great show, mate!”

Ringo gives him a hug. It only lasts for a second. George is still there, frozen into place, one hand awkwardly clutching his collar that’s so damn tight and the other holding a now empty plastic bottle. He blinks uselessly. Ringo’s still right here, grinning and a bit out of breath. His hair is plastered to his forehead. He looks spent but happy, and so beautiful George feels that sting in his heart again. He’s got to say something. Anything will do.

“Shows are always greater once they’re over,” he snickers, trying to be just who he’s supposed to be. Only a musician after a concert, talking to a bandmate. Or a friend. A best friend, actually. A one-sided soulmate. The love of his life who’ll never know it– _No!_ he screams internally. _Ringo’s definitely not the love of my life. He deserves it, true, but I’ll get over this. I’ll forget him, I’ll fall in love again with someone who’ll reciprocate my feelings. With a girl, for one. And who still says things like ‘love of my life’ anyway?! That’s so cheesy. I must be coming down with something._

“Are you already, Geo? You look so pale,” Ringo says, making George focus on him again.

God, he was so engulfed in his own thoughts about Ringo that he’d forgotten the man was just in front of him. But Ringo’s right here, and a frown has replaced his carefree, happy expression from before.

_He cares._ The thought makes George’s stomach jump. At any other time, it would make him feel so good, but right now it doesn’t. Everything feels so off. It has felt off for days. It’s too hot in here too, and that tie won’t come off–

“Here,” Ringo says when he sees George doesn’t answer.

He reaches for the bottle. George brings his now empty right hand to his tie, but it’s still too tight. The callouses of his fingertips just won’t get a hold of the thing.

“Let me help,” Ringo adds.

He takes another step forward and reaches for his tie. George lets his hands fall limply on is sides. It only lasts for a few seconds – just like when Ringo hugged him, time seems to freeze – and suddenly he’s able to breathe again.

“Thank you,” he says, taking the tiniest step back and bringing his hands to his collar again.

He undoes the first buttons easily.

“I think I tied too tight,” he smiles to Ringo who’s still looking a bit concerned.

He can’t bear the idea of it – Ringo being concerned. George has already got so much to deal with. What is more, it’s not a lie. He’s truly feeling much better now. His brain is almost functioning properly again, too.

Ringo almost reaches out for him, and then stops.

“What are you two doing?” Paul asks, arrived out of nowhere.

He squeezes himself between the two of them. George scowls at him before remembering his friend has every right to do that. Still, he finds himself wishing he could have spent only two more minutes alone with Ringo. Even if it hurts. _Great, I’m starting to like being in pain now,_ he thinks.

And he knows his pains aren’t over, because where there’s Paul, there’s also John. This equation is something one can rely upon, and it’s proved once more when John’s appear, only half a second later than George thought.

“What’s the matter?” he asks, wiping his face with a cloth.

“George isn’t …” Ringo begins.

George cuts him off, “I guess you all are going to sneak out tonight, but I’m not going to join you. I’m really tired.”

After he’s said that, he shares a glance with Ringo, just to check if his friend isn’t too puzzled. Which isn’t the case. The blue-eyed man nods as if he’d wanted to say that all along, and George feels a surge of gratefulness. There are only so many weaknesses he’s willing to let Paul and John see. Being tired is harmless enough, but he doesn’t want the word _sick_ to be uttered. Their tendency to baby him is already barely tolerable sometimes, and he’s doing so many efforts to be considered and respected– well.

So much for respect.

“Aw, Georgie’s tired then?” John snorts.

George glares at him, adding a “shut up, Lennon,” for good measure.

Surprisingly, John says nothing more about it, merely saying, “There’ll be more ladies for us three, then.” It’s said jovially, as if he hadn’t just teased George and George hadn’t replied harsher than necessary.

One day, George will have to take some time to analyse John’s brain. Its cogs seem to have a logic worth attention.

“We’re still going to ride back to the hotel with you,” Paul says, scrunching his nose. “I stink.”

They all do, leaving a lovely sent in the car that takes them back to the hotel. George mainly tunes out – there, now he’s able to – squeezed as he is between Paul and the window. A few more minutes and he’s collapsing on the bed.

He’s feeling exhausted, especially since he said he was tired. “Don’t worry about the noise,” he mumbles in the direction of Ringo’s blurry figure, hunched over his case in the corner of the room. “M’gonna sleep.”

Ringo’s giggle is still echoing in his ears when he passes out.

* * *

As soon as he stirs under the covers, a few thoughts come to his mind.

First of all, it’s still dark. It mustn’t even be seven in the morning, because the shutters aren’t closed and the only light in the room comes from the streetlamp.

Secondly, Ringo’s asleep next to him, snoring lightly. He’s not facing him, his head barely sticking out from under the covers. George didn’t hear him come back and join him in bed.

Thirdly … _I was out of my mind yesterday_ , he thinks. Now that he’s feeling refreshed, he can barely comprehend how he could feel _all this_ the night before. It’s not his habit to become overwhelmed. He’s always been balanced, or at least a bit calmer than his brothers and _much_ calmer than his friends and bandmates.

_It’s okay_ , he tells himself. _It’s only a one-time thing. Yesterday was weird, but it won’t happen again._ He’s in love with Ringo, but it doesn’t mean it has to hurt and almost make him goddamn faint as it did yesterday. It’s never been like that before, and it won’t be in the future.

Just as George swears it to himself solemnly, his stomach growls in the loudest way possible.

That’s right. He didn’t even eat last night. _There,_ he thinks, almost amused at the fact. _So much for Paul making fun of me saying I’m eating all the time._ He quietly slips out of the bed and carefully tugs at the covers, making sure they’re up to his friend’s chin. A fraction of second later, though, Ringo turns in his sleep and starfishes on the mattress.

_Well, now I’m sure I won’t go back to sleep_ , his brain supplies. He leans again to cover Ringo’s right arm and shivers himself. This room is rather cold. Ringo had better not get cold.

He grabs some clothes in his trunk and tiptoes to the bathroom. He’s still wearing the shirt he put on for their last show and lets it fall onto the ground gratefully. How Ringo was able to fall asleep right next to him when he’s smelling so bad, that’s the real question.

Before leaving the room, he pauses on the threshold, doorknob in his hand and ready to step out. He glances towards his sleeping friend. Light snores come from the bed, and the room isn’t so dark that it prevents him from seeing Ringo’s figure. His hair is spread on the pillow, forming a halo around his head. The sight is particularly endearing, and George catches himself beginning to walk back to the bed, just to have a better view.

His heart is racing again. It’s stupid. He needs to leave the room, _now._ And he needs to think.

That’s exactly what he does, once he’s swung by the breakfast room. Being a world-known guitarist has its perks, one of them being that if you show up at six thirty on a Thursday – do French have anything special going on Thursdays? – you’ll still get as many croissants, pains au chocolat and delicious brioches as you want, and smiles on top of that.

George needs to deal with his nagging and ever-growing feelings, but at least he’s full.

He could go back to their suite; they have a common room to share. Yet, it’s so early that the hotel corridors are empty, and walking sounds better than collapsing into an armchair. Slowly, he makes his way back to their floor. His feet don’t make any noise, all potential sound swallowed by the thick carpets that litter the floor and make him feel like he’s standing on a giant mattress. This hotel really is something.

George passes door after door. He needs to address the Ringo problem.

The man is his best friend. No matter what he does, he doesn’t want to lose his friendship. It’s worth too much; he’s never felt so understood or comfortable with anyone, even with his brothers and sisters, or even with Paul whom he’s known for longer. No; everything is special, works differently when it comes to Ritchie. There’s something that clicks and makes him feel warm inside. When it’s not stabbing him, of course.

Because that’s the core of the problem. Ritchie is so perfect that he exceeds what you would expect from a friend. George falling in love with him on top of his undying friendship for the man is merely an awaited development.

_I know all that. I just need a solution_ , he thinks grumpily, gnawing at his bottom lip as he’s once more turning around to pace along the corridor once more.

He wishes there was a world where he could ask him out.

He’d do that right away if, say, Ringo happened to be a woman. George might be rejected, of course, but it wouldn’t matter so much because they’d stay friends. If he were to ask Ringo out _now_ , though, what he might end up with would be a punch in the face – although it doesn’t fit Ringo’s personality. You never know. George doesn’t want to take the chance. He doesn’t want his high opinion of Ringo to falter, and he surely doesn’t want to lose his friendship.

_But if I could tell_ her _everything like everyone would expect me to…_ he thinks, before shaking his head.

No, of course, none of this makes sense. If Ringo were a woman, he wouldn’t ask her out. They’d already be married.

The hotel still doesn’t stir. Not even the smallest noise escape from the various rooms he’s passing by relentlessly. Everything is so white around him – the carpets and the walls, and even the foggy Parisian morning he glimpses at from the windows. All this white doesn’t reach his brain. His mind is filled with colourful scenes from the past – a distorted one.

Ringo last week, during that pillow fight. Oh, he’d have kissed him right on the mouth in front of the others and that photograph if they’d been married. They’d been so close, so out of breath. It would have been as simple as being human, he’d have put the pillow aside and closed the gap between them. And, to be honest, he’d considered doing just that during a moment of madness.

He thinks about Ringo at any moment, any time after any of their concerts.

He remembers Ringo when they first met for real, in Hamburg.

Maybe the key to all this is to be found back then after all. Maybe he fell in love from the beginning. Maybe he fell in love from the moment Ringo smiled at him and tried to teach him how to play the drums, just like that, without asking anything from him in return.

Maybe George’s love, that love that’s so soft at times and that’s consuming him at others, is what he wants Ringo to have in return, for all the kindness and consideration he’s always made sure to show him.

_But … But I can give that silently. I can love him without saying anything, right? He doesn’t have to know, and it doesn’t have to hurt. I can just be the best friend he ever had. It should be enough. I can’t have anything more; therefore I don’t want it. Being his friend is enough._

It’s not an epiphany, rather wishful thinking, but George can’t think of anything better. From now on, he’ll be Ringo’s friend. The best friend he ever had.

_This is friendship. An incomprehensible, out-of-the-norm friendship, but in the end it’s all it’ll ever be. I’ll accept it._

A woman wearing a salmon pink suit steps outside her room. George hurries back to his.

A large clock in their suite informs him that it’s only eight. He flops in an armchair and looks at his feet. The rug is made of a flowery pattern. _Flowers. Yes. That might be a good thing to do, cultivate flowers, make sure they grow nice and easy_ , he thinks, standing up and heading towards one of the windows. He lifts the multiple curtains, letting them fall back against him once he’s facing the window, so close he can feel the cold seeping through the glass and his breath makes some mist appear. For a second, until his eyes adjust, the only thing he can see is that mist and his own reflection. Plain old George, dark eyebrows, pointed nose, eyes peering through himself – and then the rest of the world appears behind the window. The countless roofs that are so typical here – there’s no way he could forget he’s in Paris. White smoke escapes from various chimneys, slowly disappearing into the air. Now that the sun has risen – although it’s invisible, hidden behind grey clouds – he only has to look down to seen dozens of people hurrying down the street. There are cars and taxis, plenty of them – but not a single tree. _And that’s what this place misses. Trees._ Maybe, when he’s older – when the Beatles thing has slowed down, because there’s no way this drags on for years – he’ll buy a house with a garden.

“You look like a bride,” says an amused voice behind him.

He jumps and turns around. “Ritchie. No, I don’t.”

Indeed, Ringo is there, all dressed up too, and freshly shaven. The lace curtains that stand between them, white but see-through, don’t prevent him from noticing these things.

Ringo chuckles. “Wait, I’m gonna take a photograph so you can see …”

George quickly lifts the curtains again and steps aside from the window. “No way. It’ll end in the papers.”

Ringo seems slightly disappointed, but then he chuckles again.

“What?” George asks.

Ringo’s his best friend and more than that, true. That doesn’t make him easier to follow sometimes.

“You put your shirt on inside out.”

As much as George would like to deny it and pretend it’s a new French fashion, the cuffs look awkward, he can see it now. He sighs. “That explains why I had so much trouble buttoning it. Do you mind?”

As he says that, he gets rid of his tie and unbuttons the offending shirt. Ringo isn’t paying him any attention anyway; he’s busy with papers scattered on a wardrobe. George has already stepped out of his shirt when Ringo mumbles that no, he doesn’t mind.

“And what are you looking for?” George asks, buttoning his shirt back up as Ringo is bringing paper after paper to his eyes. “I think these are Brian’s.”

“I know. I’m just trying to find how many concerts we’re meant to play today.”

“One in the early afternoon and one tonight. You could’ve asked me, you know.”

“Only two? That’s great! Sorry, I just thought you wouldn’t know, since you seemed so distant yesterday. Are you feeling better?” Ringo says, finally looking up from the now useless papers.

_Not when you’re making eye-contact like that_. George almost winces before reminding himself that it’s only friendship gone out of control. _It’s friendship. Nothing to be hurt about. We’re friends. He likes me; I don’t have to want more. It’s friendship._

“Of course! I was just tired.”

The great thing about Ringo is that he doesn’t nag. George busies himself in turn with Brian’s papers, assembling them into a neat pile. He can feel Ringo’s gaze lingering on the side of his face that isn’t hidden as he’s hunched over the chest of drawers, but his friend doesn’t say anything more about it. He merely asks him if he wants to join him on the hotel’s balcony because he needs a smoke and some fresh air.

George agrees right away, and they fetch their coats before leaving the room.

They talk about everything and anything, and whenever they happen to fall out of things to say the silence is comfortable – and soon broken. The corridors aren’t that large and George is amazed at how their shoulders don’t even brush – not that there was a part of his mind waiting for it.

They’re friends. _It’s so easy once you set your mind on it_ , George thinks with a sense of triumph as Ringo offers him a cig. His heart isn’t even racing; he’s just enjoying the fact that he is here, elbows resting on a handrail as they both enjoy the cool morning air. _It’s easy._

* * *

It’s simple until it isn’t.

It’s simple that day. During the concerts, George stays focused on his guitar and it works surprisingly well. If thoughts of Ringo come to his mind, he manages to push them aside. Ignoring them until they grow tired of it and leave him alone.

It’s simple the following day, even when he notices after the concert that some French boys – they’re younger than them – are following the car that’s driving them back to their hotel. They’d gathered around the Olympia exit, and when they leave they run after the car, shouting Ringo’s name. It makes Paul smile and John snicker and launch into a debate in order to decide who, out of the two of them, is the most attractive. George just pretends he doesn’t care about that kind of small talk. It’s simple; they’re used to him being silent.

It’s simple on Saturday because they play _three_ concerts in a row, which is nothing compared to the endless Hamburg sets but is still exhausting, barely leaving George time to think about anything else.

It’s simple on Sunday because John has been stricken by inspiration overnight and the Lennon-McCartney duo is at it again, playing and playing on the piano that has been brought here especially for them. George is happy just to sit on the floor with his guitar, trying out chords as the two others work out a melody. Ringo is here, sitting on the chest of drawers, messing up again the pile of forlorn papers George had tidied up. And if he feels anything, which isn’t the case, it’s only fondness. Fondness is a _friendly_ feeling.

It’s simple on Monday because he barely sees Ringo, who’s been distant all day and downright _disappears_ after their last show. George, being a good friend, asks Mal and Neil and Brian until someone from the place tells him in broken English that “Monsieur Reechar Starkee left weev a gurl from – uh – the spectateurs, vous voyez?” George doesn’t _see_ , but it’s enough for him to gather that he’ll have the bed for himself that night. After a few more questions, he learns from the employee that the girl had dark brown hair and was wearing a mink coat, but he doesn’t get any more details – and that is providing he understood the man correctly. Still, it makes things simpler. Knowing Ringo is enjoying himself with a French bird isn’t exactly elating, but being alone for once is nice.

It’s a lie, though. It’s not simple on Monday.

True, George _thought_ it would be, but he shouldn’t be so surprised to discover self-deception can only last for some time. Yet, there he is on Monday night, staring at the empty bed in this empty room, wanting to scream at the images feeling his head.

Ringo with–

He’d just closed the door to the shared room between his and Paul and John’s suite, but he slams it open again, barging in as if he were followed by an army of fans.

His two friends stare at him. He shrugs it off the best he can. “I guess you’re not that much a pain in the ass,” he says, settling back into his armchair near the window. He seizes his guitar and slides his legs across the arm. “Come on,” he adds when he sees they haven’t moved – _what, have they never seen a man change his mind?_ – “what are the lyrics again?”

Paul and John happily fool around the piano keys – and they are, really, a pain in the ass at times, but it’s somehow better than what George is dreading. In the end, it’s Brian who knocks on their door and tells them with a tired voice that people have been complaining about the noise.

“ _Noise?_ It’s music!” John huffs.

“Besides, it’s only two in the morning,” George yawns. “Who goes to bed this early these days?”

He’s exhausted, but he’d give anything to have a concert to perform right now.

“Night Geo,” Paul says, leaving the piano stool and following John in their shared bedroom.

Neither of them will be alone tonight, and George can’t refrain from envying them. As much as Ringo’s presence is driving him mad, his friend still has this strange, unwavering ability to calm him down.

He could just stay in this armchair instead of going back to his room, but what good would it make? He’d just have a sore back in the morning. Paul and John were distracting enough, but they’re gone now. He can hear their faint laughs and chatter from the other side of the wall.

In the end, he goes back to his and Ringo’s bedroom and prepares himself for the night like an automaton. He actually bothers taking a shower. After combing his fingers through his wet hair, he’s forced to admit that there’s nothing else he might scrub to avoid slipping into that cold bed that has pride of place in the middle of the room.

Delaying has no use. He throws himself on the bed, as far as he can from Ringo’s side. He turns off the light and crawls under the covers.

There they are, the thoughts. Waiting for him. Thoughts about Ringo, obviously, thoughts of self-pity and even more thoughts that he doesn’t delve into but that crush him nonetheless, adding to the pressure of it all.

He manages to fall asleep eventually, a long time later. He’s so exhausted that his mind can’t keep from giving in to slumber, whereas his body still hasn’t agreed. Half-asleep, he tosses and turns endlessly in the bed, tangling himself in the sheets until, his body acting without having been prompted by his mind, he kicks them off himself. He sleeps like this, gradually beginning to shiver because of the cold in the room, but free to lie on his stomach and then on his back every ten minutes.

It’s exactly what he does. His neck gets stiff when he’s on his back, so he turns on his side to rest on his stomach. But the pillow is smothering him, the fabric presses against his nostrils. After he’s suffocated long enough, it’s time to lie starfish again, which prompts another part of his body to feel sore, and then …

Then, just as he’s turning again, he stirs just enough to notice the blanket is back on his shoulders. _No way_. He shrugs it off as well as he can without opening his eyes, holding onto that little thread of sleep that’s still in his grasp but that threatens to go away at any time. He’s so close to waking up, he can feel it, and he doesn’t want to go through the whole ordeal of falling asleep twice in the same night. Slowly, in the silence of the room, he finds himself drifting off again. He turns to lie on his side without having to think about it, but his left leg hits something that shouldn’t be there. There _isn’t_ anything there; there can’t be. His legs will pass. It will, so he throws it backwards again, harder than before. This time it works. The thing he hits pulls away with a little yelp – _what?_ – and he’s able to turn correctly, lying flat on his stomach.

“George,” someone sighs behind him. “This isn’t going to work.”

_Ringo?_ It’s his voice … But Ringo isn’t here, Ringo won’t come back until the morning. And when he’ll be there he’ll have that _I got laid_ smile plastered on his face, and these bags under his eyes because of the little sleep he got. Bags that’ll mirror George’s for some reason. Since George is awake, too. He realises it now; thinking of Ringo is a sign he’s not asleep; or maybe it’s what woke him up. All the same, he’s awake, Ringo nowhere to be seen and he’d better get used to it. _Now._

George seals his new resolution by turning around, lying on his side so he faces the door. There. He’ll be able to see his friend coming back. His hip itches like crazy, like it does when you’re so nervous and so tired at the same time.

“George. George, you’re making the bed shake every time you move. Can you hear me?”

George freezes on the spot. Ringo … Ringo came back and he didn’t even notice. Since when is he here, getting kicks in the shin?

George is perfectly awake, and yet that could be a dream. _Ringo came back_. He’s so caught up in his thoughts that he doesn’t even think of answering. He scratches his nose, brows furrowed. He wishes he could turn around to see Ringo with his own eyes, just for one second. Being in the dark wouldn’t be an issue, he’d recognize Ringo at night and in the fog, he knows he would.

“George, are you asleep?” Ringo whispers, almost in his ear this time, like it’s a secret they share.

George is belatedly opening his mouth when an arm sneaks around his waist. Ringo presses against his back. George becomes a statue; he doesn’t even dare to breathe anymore. He can’t think right now, can’t- but that much he knows: he’ll do anything to stay like that. His eyes flutter open, and there it is, despite the dark – Ringo’s hand, resting on the mattress, only inches from his. He can only marvel at it, and at the warmth that is spreading from Ringo’s chest. It’s the most wonderful thing George ever felt.

Ringo lets out something that George identifies as a chuckle. “I wonder why this always works,” his friend mutters to himself.

Within minutes, his breathing slows. George can not only hear him fall asleep – he can feel it, and he relishes every second. The arm around his waist becomes heavier. Puffs of breath bring goose bumps to his neck. George’s breathing follows Ringo’s, deepening until the other has fell asleep and George stays there, still awake, still wondering – did Ringo truly imply that this has already happened before?

* * *

George looks up to the sky. _The weather’s dull_ , he notes absentmindedly. The clouds aren't only persistent and hiding every ounce of blue in the sky, they are so thick that they seem to be endlessly still. Like all the wind that could ever blow wouldn’t make them budge.

What does a sunny sky look like again?

_Oh no, not cheesy thoughts,_ George cringes at himself only a few seconds later.

The reason? Simple. Ringo has just turned towards him; offered him a smile combined with a glance and … there. Everyone in their right mind knows that Ringo’s eyes are blue as the sky, or even better. They’re never cloudy, for one. In fact, they're so clear it's mesmerising, and it's exactly this type of thoughts that George shouldn’t have were he just Ringo’s best friend. _Cheesy, too cheesy_ , he tuts at himself cheerfully, smiling inwardly as he follows his three bandmates further out on the balcony.

Today is their day off, so of course they're taking photographs. According to Brian, it won’t take too much time and afterwards they’ll be free for the rest of the day. The photographer himself – a man not so much older than them, wearing the most severe suit but a green polka dot bow tie –assured them the balcony will provide the perfect setting, which is why they’re here now, slightly shivering in the cold January air.

Paul, John and Ringo chat the photographer up as the man gives them directions. _Stand there, lean towards him, no, maybe the other way around, lift your chin. Perfect._ It's a good thing the man speaks English better than many people here. If he'd said all this in French, who knows where they might have ended. _Probably doing headstands._

George doesn’t join the conversation, only moving when needed. Weirdly, he finds that he's enjoying the day. Even the cheesiness of his feelings towards Ringo can’t upset him today. He merely notices them, truly. He smirks at them from a distance, almost detached. It may have to do with what happened during the night. When he woke up this morning – although he'd been determined not to fall asleep – Ringo had let go of him, but he's sure he didn’t dream it. It happened. Ringo cuddled him last night. To think his friend feels comfortable enough to do that makes him feel somewhat triumphant. Even if it only happened because he was keeping the drummer from sleeping, it means something. It's a proof they're close, and that's what George craves. Being close to Ringo, closer and even closer after that. His friend has unknowingly given him the most precious gift.

It makes him relax, even. If he makes an effort, closes his eyes really hard, he can almost feel Ringo’s embrace again. He smiles.

“No, I said no smiling!” the photographer complains, interrupting his thoughts.

“Aw, Georgie, can't you sulk like you usually do? You ruined all the man's hard work,” John jokes immediately.

George glares at him.

The photographer lowers his camera and smiles at George. “No, no, it's alright. This setting isn’t as good as I thought anyway.”

The man looks in the distance, not paying them attention anymore. Paul and John are quietly muttering among themselves. Ringo leans against the handrail. George turns towards him. His heart does a little jolt when Ringo smiles at him again for the second time in five minutes. It's so exhilarating – things seem to have gone back to normal since last night. A nice hug seems to have solved all George's problems.

His problems, mind, do not comprise love in itself. His love for Ringo is not an issue, it's making him so peacefully happy today. Today, just like in the beginning, he doesn’t wish it would go away. _This feeling isn’t our, but at least it's mine._

“Alright?” George asks, his voice hardly above a murmur.

“Alright,” Ringo nods back.

It doesn’t mean much to anyone else, this exchange, and yet George cherishes it. Ringo's gaze is warm, and it doesn’t hurt George to get lost in it today. They share a comfortable silence until Ringo tilts his chin towards their poor photographer.

“Oh, look at him. He’s found his idea.”

The photographer’s eyes have lit up almost literally. He's staring at the other end of the balcony as if he’s suddenly discovered the meaning to life.

“But of course! Here, boys, if you please!”

He guides them towards three statues.

“I should have thought of it sooner,” he tells them. “It’s obvious. This scenery obviously lacks feminine presence. These three marble ladies will hint at it in an obvious way, but just enough so that the whole dynamic that surrounds you won't be disturbed, obviously.”

Paul nods eagerly. George mimics him, doing his best to hide his frown. A quarter of seconds later, Ringo nods too and then leans towards him.

“It’s _obvious,_ ” he says. George bites the inside of his cheek really hard, but it's not enough. A giggle escapes him and he awkwardly turns it into a scoff. Paul glares at him whereas John nods appreciatively. The photographer is more confused than ever. George doesn’t care about any of it. He's just happy Ringo has had the same thought as him.

Following his new plan, the photographer asks them to stand around the three statues.

“There, just ... Oh, you wanna do that? Very well ...” he rambles on as John casually climbs and settles himself between the three statues.

“You ... Please ... Join them,” the man says from behind the camera.

It takes George a few seconds to understand he's talking to him. Indeed, Paul and Ringo are standing in front of the statues, on a little platform around it. George is almost ten inches shorter than Ringo now. He looks up at his two friends.

“Paul, scoot over, will you?”

But Paul pays him no mind. He's too busy giggling at something John told him and is standing almost as nonchalantly as John, a foot propped on the pedestal as if he meant to join John up there.

George shakes his head. He might as well sit in front of them. Maybe that French guy would like that?

“There’s enough space for all of us,” Ringo says. “Come on.”

Who's George to refuse his extended hand? Ringo seizes his arm and holds him close as they move to the left, in Paul's direction.

“The platform’s too small,” George smiles, because they're still so close and he can feel Ringo’s body pressed against his almost as clearly as last night – _last night, last night, last night, one of the best nights in my life I guess, I should be sad about it instead of being so happy_. “Told you.”

“Actually, you–” Ringo begins, but the photographer cuts in.

“No! Don't stand in front of Lennon! Don't stand in front of him!” he shouts, looking horrified.

_This_ is a reason why George has always found artists delightful to be around. Ringo and he step aside so that they don’t hide John’s legs from the camera, allowing the photographer to let out a sigh of relief. Now they're definitely pressed against one another. George only has one foot on the platform, the other is hovering in the air.

“Alright?” Ringo asks him with a soft, _so soft voice, George is going to melt._ “I've got you.”

The warmth in George's chest – it's here. He's feeling so happy right now, and it has been so long since being one-sidedly in love with Ringo hasn’t been so precious. His friend is so kind. _He couldn’t be kinder if he really loved me back_ , George thinks before shaking the thought away. To distract himself, he looks at Ringo – perhaps not his best move – and finds his eyes already fixed on his.

_His eyes_ _..._

It's a weird moment, a moment during which George's heart hammers so loud in his chest he's positive everyone can hear it. It's not his fault, really. Ringo isn’t doing anything, he's just his usual self. George can only blame the emotional rollercoaster he’s been through lately. It's no wonder if his mind is making things up. It almost– yes, it almost looks like more than a friendly gesture. The way Ringo holds him close, the way he peers at him, it could be flirting. If it wasn’t Ringo. If it was one of these girls from back home, or a French one, yes. But not Ringo. Never him, right?

It’s over all too soon. Ringo drops his arm the second the photographer orders him to, turning away to face the lens. All George can do is put on a blank face and wait patiently until the photoshoot ends. They can all speak to him as much as they want – he has tuned out of this reality – the moment he has just lived, although only real in his head, is enough to provide hours of daydreaming, and he's got a task to complete – engrave every second of it in his memory.

* * *

The next day sees them back to their schedule, which means they play concert after concert.

Except that these concerts are nothing like the previous ones. If they were a pain before, now they're just what they’re supposed to be – concerts for a public that doesn’t understand a word and always leaves much less stiff than it arrived.

To be true, George feels like he's living in a bubble of happiness of some sort, and although he's aware it's all an hallucination conjured by his brain, he can’t help but indulge in it. He’ll make the most of it for the time it lasts.

Yes, every time he turns towards Ringo while they're onstage he catches the other's eyes on him, but there’s nothing surprising about it. Ringo keeps his eyes on the three of them while he plays. George doesn’t care. At night, after they’ve turned out the lights, he likes to imagine it's only him, and that Ringo can't look away. _What a joke_. He knows, he _knows_ it's not real. But these thoughts make him feel like he's flying higher than the Eiffel tower. And he doesn’t see a reason not to allow himself such harmless things- he just has to make sure that he doesn’t confuse his dreams with reality.

At the end of every show, when Ringo rushes towards him backstage and engulfs him in a hug, George can't help it either. He likes to think Ringo’s rosy cheeks aren’t due to the show but mean he’s blushing. He likes to think their hug lasts a few seconds longer than it should.

This is insane.

_Insanity is kept under control_ , George repeats himself when they play “Boys” and that Ringo grins at him from behind his kit and shouts “alright George”. _No one sees my hands are trembling_ are the words that swirl in his head every time Ringo helps him out of the car when they get back to their hotel. _It's always been like this between us,_ he forcefully reminds himself when they randomly make eye contact during a lunch or a jam session or just in the morning when they wake up.

All these moments fill his days much more than the concerts do. To the three others, the days might seem endlessly repetitive, and they sure are, but to him they are also so eventful that they leave him exhausted, dozing off as soon as he sits in the car for the last time of the day.

Before he’s aware of it, they are performing their last concert in front of the French crowd.

“We'll miss you!” Paul tells the audience, an exhilarated smile on his face, voice a bit hoarse.

George smirks. _Sure_.

It’s only the next morning, as he’s trying to fold some clothes so they’ll fit in his case, that George realises Paul was right. He’ll miss this happiness when it’ll go, because it will. Even now, as a beautiful morning light hinting at the oncoming spring comes from the windows, he knows it will. He idly wonders when this bubble will blow, when the pain of being hopelessly in love will come back and explode right in his face. When they’re in America, maybe. He can’t bring himself to care, that's what a daily triple dose of Ringo’s smiles, hugs and giggles does to him.

_We're leaving France this afternoon. I need to make the most of today._ With that thought, he shoves one last shirt in his case and flops onto the bed, bringing his arms under his head and staring at the white ceiling.

He kind of wishes they could take this bed with them when they leave. It has hosted the best sleeps he’s had in a while. Especially last night, because he may or may not have pretended to be asleep and _restless_ just to see what would happen, and much to his delight Ringo fell in the trap. His friend silently crept closer and wrapped an arm around him. George even heard him whisper softly “and here I was thinking you'd stopped doing that,”. Then Ringo buried his head in the little strands of hair in the nape of his neck fell asleep.

What a perfect night.

George yawns – after that happened, he didn’t get much sleep due to personal circumstances.

The door leading to the shared room of their suite opens.

“Oh, you're here,” Ringo says. “What are you doing?”

“Packing,” George smiles.

Ringo doesn’t contradict him but plops on the bed instead. “Sounds difficult. Maybe I can help.”

George hums. _It's great,_ he thinks. _It’s so great to stay comfortably on a bed, lying next to your best friend._ Their hands could brush if they wanted. They _won’t,_ but knowing that possibility exists in another universe where Ringo is indeed in love with him is enough.

Soon, all too soon, Ringo jolts upright in the bed.

“I nearly forgot!” he says, seizing a little envelope he'd discarded on the floor. “That French photographer sent us these.”

He hands a few photos to George. “They’re pretty neat, I think.”

They are, that much you can say. George is mesmerized by how good Ringo looks on them, although the current version who's lying _right next to him_ on the bed has nothing to envy them. There's one that George particularly loves. Ringo’s not even looking at the camera, standing slightly turned towards Paul but leaning, leaning back _oh-so subtly_ in his direction. And they're close, definitely closer than Paul and Ringo are on the photograph and even closer than John and Paul are. And their shoulders that seem to touch aren’t a mere impression given by the picture. It happened.

“D’you think I can keep them?” he asks with his most indifferent voice.

Ringo shrugs. “Sure. But give me one?”

George makes sure to give him the one he likes the less, the one on which the distance between them is most visible.

Then he leaves the bed and puts them carefully in his case. There's no way he's forgetting these behind him.

“What are Paul and John doing?” he then asks.

Just at that moment, a loud _bonk_ answers him.

“A song, then,” he comments as a series of ill-fitting chords come from the other room. “Or not so much at this point.” grabs his own guitar before adding, “I might as well try to get something out before they barge in with their fifteenth song of the week.”

“You know, I sometimes wish we could do the same. Write songs of our own, the two of us.”

Ringo has said this with a little smile, but with his eyes that are half-closed it almost looks like he's sad. That's an idea George can't bear. He throws more than he sets his guitar on the bed.

“But we can do that, you know. Hold on.”

Ringo hasn’t moved an inch when George comes back less than a minute later, John's guitar clutched in his hands. Much more carefully, he hands it to Ringo who sits up on the bed.

“He let you borrow that?” his friend asks.

“Had only eyes for what Paul was scribbling on that piece of paper,” George shrugs it off. He sits crossed-legged on the bed in front of Ringo, his own guitar in his lap.

They look at each other, suddenly uneasy.

_How do you create a song out of nowhere with someone?_ George asks himself. He's seen Paul and John do it thousands of times, but now he wishes he'd paid more than fleeting attention to the process.

“Um,” Ringo says.

“Um,” George repeats after him.

Then they both speak at the same time.

“After you,” George says.

“I just said – I didn’t mean I wanted to write a song right now,” Ringo says. “Not that I don't want to, but I don't have any idea.”

He looks a bit sheepish. George won’t have any of it. He hurriedly takes control.

“Paul and John do that all the time, it can't be that hard. We can do it, we just have to find a nice melody to begin with,” he assures his friend, feeling utterly stupid as he pretends to be so sure about something he's making up.

Yet, Ringo smiles at him. George takes it as his cue to go one. He strums a few chords before settling for one. “Nice. Yeah?”

Ringo nods silently.

“Now what would go with it?” George mutters to himself. “A and high E chords, alright.”

It's not long before he's found a nice little pattern. The melody sounds nice. He looks up from the strings and suddenly remembers Ringo hasn’t moved, has still his eyes trained on him, John’s guitar useless in his lap.

“Sorry,” George says.

“Don’t be. It's beautiful. But I don't know why you gave me this,” Ringo says. “I know five chords anyway.”

He's moving to put the guitar aside when George springs forward. “Don’t! I need your help. You're gonna play these,” he says, playing the chords as he speaks.

Ringo agrees all too easily. Another surge of affection overwhelms George. He shakes his head to regain control over his mind.

“Okay. Words now,” he says with his most confident voice.

“Yeah,” Ringo says.

“Yeah.”

_Oh God._ They're not going anywhere. It should be so easy. It _is_ so easy to John and Paul, he's _seen_ them! _What would Paul and John write about?_ _Oh, of course._

“I’m in love with a girl,” Ringo mutters, half-singing and half-speaking regularly.

If that doesn't mean their brains are connected, George doesn't know anything about changing a guitar string.

He grins at his friend and plays the melody he's found. “I’m in love with a girl,” he repeats, “and she's got blue eyes.”

“And dark hair,” Ringo adds, awkwardly strumming an E chord that still comes right on time.

“She likes it when I play her songs,” George tries.

Too many words. They don't fit the melody. But who cares?

“But only the songs that are about her,” Ringo says.

He misses the A chord he meant to play. A horrible sound echoes in the air. Their eyes meet again, and suddenly they're both laughing their heads off.

“This is ridiculous,” George pants.

“We need to stop,” Ringo says between two waves of laughter.

“Not my– fault– you should’ve– seen your face!”

It takes George some time to realise Ringo has become quiet. His own laughter is now the only sound that can be heard in the room, transforming his guitar into an echo chamber. He lifts his head. Ringo is watching him intently, again. Two minutes ago he was laughing like he'd never stop, but now he's staring at George with a grave face.

_In another reality, that'd mean he loves me,_ George's brain supplies. He curses the thought as soon as he's had it. He's sharing a privileged one-to-one moment with his best friend. F-r-i-e-n-d. He doesn’t need these thoughts to worm their way into his mind. It has been a while, but right now he wishes his feelings would go away again.

_What would Ringo think?_ There must be a sensible explanation to this staring, even though George can’t put his finger on it.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

His voice comes out in a strangled way, but Ringo doesn’t seem to notice.

“I’m trying to think of a song,” Ringo mutters.

_There. That makes sense._

George looks down at his guitar and plucks a few chords. Nothing grand, nothing inspiring, not even a riff.

He looks up and gets caught in Ringo’s blue eyes. They're peering into his soul. He can't help but lean forward a few inches to get closer to these patches of blue sky.

_Stop thinking like this! This is a friendship bond moment,_ he admonishes himself, but to no avail. He finds himself unable to move, even if it were only to lean back. Even his eyes seem to have been frozen on the spot. _Blink!_ he orders himself. His eyes are burning. Is he breathing correctly, or is this the reason why he’s feeling so dizzy? And there's something else – something he notices but that _can't_ be. It simply can't. Why on earth would Ringo lean towards him too? It's invisible, it is. He can only _feel_ it in his bones; therefore it must be a new trick from his mind.

He's really going insane this time. Hallucinations? Without any drugs in his system? That's more likely than he thought, because how else would he interpret the vision he's having right now – no, of course Ringo's gaze hasn’t shifted to his lips for a split second.

George looks at Ringo, then at the door. He needs to get out of here. If not out of the hotel, out of the room would be nice. Or even out of the bed, because the door suddenly seems to far. Even the obnoxious noises coming from the other room have become weirdly distant. He should get Paul or John, or both, and pretend he's really interested in knowing how they collaborate on songs. He needs to do something – anything – to break the hallucination.

He regains a semblance of control over his body and shuts his eyes forcefully, so hard little patches of brown appear. _Be Ringo’s friend. Now,_ he instructs himself.

He doesn’t get the chance to be Ringo’s friend though. When he opens his eyes, he's met with the sight of two blue eyes he knows by heart, only they're much, much closer than they should. Too close to find a rational explanation, too close to allow his brain to function and try and find one anyway. He can only wonder what is happening, once and fleetingly, because his brain completely shuts out immediately afterwards.

Ringo creeps even closer, tilts his head and kisses him. George’s eyes flutter close against his will. The world has vanished, every thought, everything he believed he knew. He couldn’t play a C chord if he wanted it.

All he knows is that Ringo's lips are against his. Moving gently. Greeting his, maybe? His own lips certainly greet them back. He _knows_ he's responding to the kiss, he _knows_ their lips fit together.

He _knows_ he needs to breathe and that he needs to keep kissing Ringo. He only listens to the latter need. Ringo's left hand settles on his cheek, and George is acutely aware of the feeling, his senses sharper all at once. That hand on his cheek – a warm palm, so soft, and still these little calluses that remind him it's _Ringo_ of all people. The man he loves, who's wearing rings as he always does – and today George can feel them against his skin.

George still needs to breathe, but he can't, not right now. Ringo pecks him on the lips once, twice – thrice. George knows his heart is ready to burst – it probably has begun to already, which would explain a lot of things. Slowly, as if they have a mind of their own, his own hands come up and up. He wants – no, he needs to tangle them in Ringo's hair, not to mess it up, but just to feel him close. They are so close already, and still it's not enough. It'll never be enough; George's fingers itch with the need to touch him.

Maybe Ringo has sensed that, the sort of desperation with which George is now returning his kiss. He's always been one step ahead of George's every wish. Even if it might be for another reason, he scoots closer, rests his other hand on George’s neck. George leans in – and some noise cuts him short.

There it is, his guitar. Trapped between them and letting out the most pitiful noises as Ringo's knee brushes against the neck.

Faster than George's brain can process, Ringo gets them rid of it, placing it next to John’s guitar on the mattress. He's leaning towards George again when he notices his stunned expression.

“Alright?” he asks.

Were it not _now_ , George would notice _alright_ has become their signature question. He's miles from it right now, eyes fixed on Ringo as if seeing him for the first time. It doesn’t help his poor brain that Ringo's hand has found his cheek again, stroking it oh-so soothingly with his thumb.

He doesn’t know if he's alright. In the one hand, he's more than good – something is goddamn roaring in his chest, the blood pumping in and out of his heart seems to have become so _warm_ suddenly, sending waves of incredible joy everywhere in his body. On the other hand, he's just stunned. Something like this – a kiss, _a wonderful kiss, oh God_ – isn’t supposed to happen in this universe.

“George,” Ringo repeats.

The drummer lets go of his cheek. George's eyes follow that hand as it finds its peer in Ringo's lap. The two hands touch, fingers fiddle with a ring. The emptiness that hits George is far too disproportionate; he can’t let it show.

“Are ... are you sure?” he forces out.

Nothing makes sense. These two universes shouldn’t have ever met. There’s the real world where he’s Ringo’s bandmate; there’s the imaginary world where their friendship is more than that. Their paths shouldn’t have crossed. Yet Ringo merged them into one without even having to snap his fingers. _What just happened?_

Ringo isn’t looking at him anymore. _He must’ve realised he made a mistake_ , George thinks immediately.

But then, why would he kiss him again?

This time it's a bit less sweet, a bit less tame. George loves it all the same. Especially when Ringo's hands settle on his cheeks again, holding him there as if he could have wanted to go away. As if. _Not in this universe, ever._

“I’ve been trying to tell you for so long. Of course I'm sure,” Ringo says when they part – not much, just enough so their lungs can get a rest and they can feel the other’s breath on their lips. “I just thought you weren’t.”

Another kiss follows. Eventually George places a kiss on Ringo's cheek. He hugs him, because it's the easiest way he can think of to convey everything he's feeling right now. He holds onto Ringo, enjoying the way their chests touch, until it hurts because that's how he feels. All this love that he has in himself and that seems to have finally been allowed to be, and not only to be – to spread and to show and to care, – it's crushing him, but not in a bad way, no. Even though he can’t comprehend everything right now – _why, since when, how much?_ – he knows answers will come. He knows they'll talk, because that's one thing they’ve always been good at – communicating. For now he's happy just to hold Ringo tight and mutter an almost inaudible _I love you_ in his ear, because it's not as prohibited and unwanted as he thought it was. He's sure of how he feels; it might be rushed to say it, but he can’t bring himself to think about it for more than a second.

Sometimes – no, not sometimes. _Right now,_ this feeling is so deep that it could be too much, it’s true, but he wants it to stay forever. He'll always feel that way – he can tell by the way his heart flutters when Ringo giggles in his ear and whispers something he wasn’t waiting for even after all his universe has been turned upside-down.

“George … I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you wanna leave a comment it would make my day but you don't have to <3 I wish you all a very good day or night <3


End file.
